Conflicting Hearts
Read Conflicting Hearts Online
Authors: J. D. Burrows
Conflicting Hearts
Published by Holland Legacy Publishing
ISBN:
978-0-9832959-9-0
Library of Congress Control
Number:
2012953047
Copyright © 2012 by J. D. Burrows
All Rights Reserved.
This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form,
stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means without
prior written permission of the author, except as provided by United States of
America copyright law.
Kindle Edition, License Notes
This eBook is licensed for your
personal enjoyment and should not be re-sold or given away to other people. If
you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an
additional copy for each recipient.
Work of Fiction
This is a work of fiction.
Names, characters, and incidents either are product of the author’s imagination
or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or
dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Disclaimer
This work is not intended as a
substitute for any advice that may be given by a mental health professional,
such as a therapist or psychiatrist. If you are a victim of childhood sexual
abuse, please be aware that this book may trigger flashbacks, memories and/or
upsetting emotions.
Author’s
Note
The instance of childhood
sexual abuse portrayed in this book is not fiction. It is the author’s
true-life experience.
Acknowledgements
Thank you to the following businesses who granted permission
to reference their establishments in this work.
Stephanie Inn
2740 South Pacific
Cannon Beach, Oregon 97110
Portland City Grill
Unico US Bank Tower/30th
Floor
111 SW 5th Avenue
Portland, Oregon 97204
DEDICATION
To every child who
has experienced the horrors of sexual abuse, may you find healing, hope, and
the love you deserve.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
A Fated Occurrence
It’s eight o’clock in the morning. I squeeze my lips
together in frustration and rest my right hand on top of the steering wheel,
repeatedly tapping my fingers from pinky to index finger. As I look at my nails
that sorely need a manicure, I wonder why I don’t tap my fingers the other way,
from index finger to pinky. I try, but my brain refuses to obey. I’m obviously
bored.
Beep. Beep
. A blaring horn behind me causes me to
glance in my rearview mirror. The irate driver shoots me an angry glare and
raises his hands. I glance ahead and note that the traffic has moved.
Thirty
feet and you need to beep at me, you creep?
I accelerate toward the bumper
of the snazzy roadster ahead of me and come to another stop. The traffic is
going absolutely nowhere.
I flip on the radio station and punch the buttons, one after
another, searching for a traffic report. Finally, I hear the news.
“The
Sunset Highway is backed up at Sylvan Hill due to a three car accident. Only
one lane is open
…
”
“Crap,” I blurt in frustration. This is not a good start to
my day.
A quick glance in my rearview mirror tells me Mr.
Hurry-It-Up is as frustrated as I am. It’s time to break the law. I shove my
hand into my purse and retrieve my phone. I glance around to make sure no cops
are nearby to give me a ticket for driving while talking on my cell. Of course,
idling isn’t driving, mind you, but if anyone would be ticketed, it would be
me. Funny, but everyone else is on the phone too. I hit the speed dial and push
the speaker button.
“Kennedy Advertising Agency, this is Julie.”
“Julie? This is Rachel. I’m stuck in traffic, and I don’t
think I’m going to make it to work on time. Can you let the boss know?”
“You caught in that accident on the freeway?”
“Yeah, and it’s a bugger. I should be there before my nine
a.m. meeting.”
“All right, I’ll let Mr. Stewart know you’re running late.”
“Thanks,” I reply and end the call. Okay, that’s taken care
of, so I drop my phone back in my purse.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
The guy behind me lays on the horn
again. I turn my head around and glare at his rude face, before checking
through my front windshield. After I turn my head forward again, I see why he’s
cursing me. The traffic is moving.
I accelerate and am surprised I’m actually
rolling along at twenty-five miles per hour. It appears another lane has
opened, easing the gridlock.
As I pass the three vehicles off to the side of the road
that caused the backup, I see the police cars with their flashing overheads. My
head cocks to the right to take a quick glance. Wow, what a mess of jumbled
steel. Nobody appears injured, so why does everybody have to gawk at accidents?
Of course, I’m being judgmental and doing the same thing.
The next I know, I turn my head forward and
bam
! The
traffic has come to a quick halt again, and I’ve just rear-ended the car ahead
of me. My airbag goes off and slaps me in the face, stopping my heart from the
shock.
“Oh, God, no,” I cry out. Devastated, I place my forehead on
the steering wheel and feel like banging it repeatedly. Inwardly, I say a
thousand curses, afraid to look at the damage. I don’t have the courage to gaze
at my latest screw-up. A sinking, accident-sick feeling clutches my stomach.
Shit,
shit, shit!
I whine inside my scatterbrain head. My next explicative rant
is interrupted by a
tap-tap-tap
on the glass.
I slowly raise my head and notice a tall man, with dark
hair, peering down at me through my driver’s side window. The car ahead is
empty, and I assume this is the guy I creamed. I push the button, and it rolls
down.
“Please, don’t yell at me,” I beg, looking up at him. I’m on
the verge of tears.
“I’m not going to yell at you,” he calmly replies. “I saw
your head against the steering wheel and was concerned that you might have been
injured.”
Wow, that’s a first. I look at the damage to his car and
cringe. His trunk is bent and popped open. The hood on my car is crinkled like
an accordion.
“I’m okay,” I answer timidly. “Are you okay?”
His narrowed blue eyes look at me intently, and I wonder if
he’s going to sue. Crap, everybody who gets rear-ended sues. It’s a given.
“I’m fine. Just a minor fender bender. Perhaps we should
pull off to the shoulder and exchange insurance information. We’re holding up
traffic.”
“Oh, okay,” I say, watching him walk away and get back into
his car. I finally take the time to examine my victim. He looks around my age,
tall, dark hair, dressed in an expensive navy-colored, three-piece business
suit.
Maybe he doesn’t need my insurance money,
I think to myself.
As I pull my crunched car over to the right side, I hear the
front bumper rub against the left tire. Steam is hissing from underneath the
hood. Damn, I really did a job on my junker. My poor twelve year-old foreign
make looks like it’s had its last day on the road. I glance at his beautiful
car and cringe. Not only is his trunk smashed, but the bumper is falling off on
the right side.
After we pull over to the shoulder, cars start moving past
us. I sheepishly look in the visor mirror and check my looks. Why, I have no
idea, except already I feel intimidated by the man in the suit who is back,
standing on the passenger side of my car, tapping on the window. I hit the
button and roll it down.
“Yes?”
“You should get out on this side rather than on the driver’s.
It’s too dangerous.”
“Dangerous?”
I look out my window and see how close I’m parked to the
lane. He’s right. If I open my door, I’m going to lose it.
Crap.
Thank
goodness I wore a pantsuit to work rather than a skirt and blouse. In a very
unladylike manner, I swing my right leg over the protruding gear shift, slide
my butt into the passenger seat, and pull my left leg over feeling like a
pretzel. I unlock the door, and he opens it for me.
Good lord, who is this
guy?
I ponder inwardly.
“Here, let me help you,” he says, offering me his hand.
“No, I’m fine,” I protest, as I wiggle my way out of the
seat and stand up outside the car. My hand shoves a piece of hair out of my
eyes, and I try to compose myself. The scent of the man’s cologne wafts toward
my nose. He takes a step back toward the concrete barrier giving me room to
maneuver.
“Are you sure that you’re okay, ma’am?” He wrinkles his brow
and gives me the once over, as if he’s looking for broken bones or blood.
“Yes, I’m okay, but I should be asking you that question.
Look what I did to your car!” I’ve crashed into a dark blue British made
roadster. Dang, what a shame! I’d kill me, if I were him.
“Nothing that can’t be fixed,” he assures me in a composed
and even tone.
“But what about you? Did I wrench your neck and shoulders?”
I wince after the words leave my mouth. Why am I encouraging a lawsuit?
“Well, for now, I’m okay. I think my car took it harder than
I did.”
“I’m sorry,” I blurt out. “I was gawking at the accident off
to the side, cursing the traffic, and then I rammed your bumper. It’s entirely
my fault.” I remember the warning on my insurance card not to admit fault.
Stupid, I
am
at fault, and my insurance rates are going to skyrocket.
“We should exchange information,” he says, giving me a
somber look.
For a moment, I make a closer inspection of the driver and
curse myself for running into him. Damn, he’s one decent-looking man. At least
I have morning eye-candy to soothe my wounded ego, if nothing else.
“Let me grab my purse.” I lean over inside my car, feeling
embarrassed that my ass is in the air, and snatch it off the floor. My head
comes up for air, and I see the steam hissing through my hood.
“Oh, God, I think I’m going to need a tow,” I moan.
“Yes, it looks as if you’ve cracked your radiator, I’m
afraid,” he says, stroking his chin.
I frown over his astute observation and glance over at his
car, wondering if he can drive off with a hanging bumper.
“Excuse me,” I say, squeezing between him and the freeway
barrier. The close quarters of the shoulder cause me to brush against his body,
giving him the familiar boob graze.
Why didn’t you just ask him to move?
I
chide myself.
He towers over my five-foot, four-inch frame and watches me
like a hawk with his dark eyes. His lashes are so thick that he looks as if
he’s wearing eye liner. The more I stare into them, the more I realize he’s a
natural hunk. His piercing gaze makes me nervous, and I hope that I didn’t
rear-end a serial killer. You never know.
I plop my ten-pound purse on top of the trunk and start
rifling through the contents. After finding my wallet, I flip through the
multiple cards I carry that give me discounts throughout the city. Somewhere
between the grocery store and the pet store I find my insurance card.
“Here it is.” I breathe in relief, as I pull it out and hand
it over to him.
“Driver’s license?” he asks coolly.
“Oh, sorry.” I locate it and pass it to him. Immediately, I
notice he hasn’t pulled any of his cards out, but I’ve bared my horrible
license photo, address, height, weight, age, color of my eyes, and insurance
company to this complete stranger. He peruses my driver’s license attentively
and then grins.
“Nice picture.”
“Oh, sure,” I say. “You’re trying to make me feel better.”
My eyes narrow, and I scowl at him.
He chuckles and then reaches inside of his vest pocket and
retrieves a small, black notepad. Quickly, he flips it open, grabs a fancy pen
from inside, too, and places my information and his pad on the trunk of my car.
I’m fascinated, wondering who he is, as his cologne rides upon the passing
breeze, swirling around me like a toxic drug. It’s been too long since I’ve
inhaled the scent of a man. His hair is thick and dark, and I have the urge to
run my fingers through it.
“Rachel Ann Hayward,” he slowly drawls, as he pens my name
down in perfect script. He jots down the numbered address and my apartment
unit, and recites the rest out loud. “S.W. Barnes Road, Portland, Oregon 97229.
Date of birth May 25, 1982.” He pauses, and I know why. It dawns on him what I
already know.
“It’s your birthday today?” His smile fades, and he looks at
me with a pitiful stare.
Hastily, I turn my gaze away, shrug my shoulders and nod
“yes” acknowledging the perfect start of my day turning thirty.
“Apparently, the big three-o was meant to be a memorable
one. It’s downhill from here on out,” I reply, trying not to look at him. I
keep my eyes on the impressive pen instead.
“I doubt that,” he says sweetly. “It’s only the beginning, I
assure you.”
What’s that supposed to mean?
I wonder, scrunching my
brow.
Is he a fortune teller?
He finishes penning the remainder of my information and then
hands me back my driver’s license and insurance card.
“Now yours?” My eyebrows are raised, in case he thinks I’m going
to let him off. Suddenly, I see a policeman walking up from the accident behind
us.
“Is anyone hurt?” The cop takes the usual take-charge
stance. Mr. Cutesy answers.
“No officer, everything is fine. We’re just exchanging
information now.”
The police officer takes a quick look at our damage, scowls
at me, and then nods at my victim.
“All right then, if there are no injuries, I’ll leave you
two.” He turns around and walks back toward the other pileup.
“Uh, license and insurance,” I remind him, holding out my
hand.
“Sure thing,” he says, shoving his hand into his inside
jacket pocket and retrieving a slim, brown leather wallet. With his long
fingers, he pulls out his driver’s license and insurance card, which look brand
new. Mine, on the other hand, looks as if it went through the wash.
I tilt my head so I can see the inside of his wallet. To my
chagrin, each card is neatly situated in the slots, and I notice the first
three are in alphabetical order. I suspect the others are too. He quickly
closes it up in front of my snooping nose. Curiosity always gets the best of
me, and I am overwhelmingly fascinated by this guy. He wears an expensive suit,
his hair doesn’t have a strand out of place, and his nails actually look
manicured. I conclude he’s a neat freak and some high-powered business
executive who works downtown.
“Thank you,” I mumble. I snatch his license and insurance
card, and then put them on the trunk of my car. He’s quietly watching me,
almost as if I’m his morning entertainment. I shove my hand into the black hole
that is my purse and search for a piece of paper and something to write with.
Finding an old receipt and a pen with a smidgen of ink left at the tip, I
quickly jot down his information, taking note of his life points.
Ian A. Richards, age 32, Skyline Drive, Portland, Oregon and
realize he doesn’t live that far away from me. I glance at his fancy insurance
card. He’s not in the friendly hands of my insurance company. Instead, he’s got
the buck with the antlers.
“So, you have the insurance company with the deer picture,”
I announce in stupidity.
“Bull elk,” he replies with a smart-ass grin.
His face looks as if he’s sporting the hunter of the year
award and instantly I wonder if he has a gun. I eye his smug attitude up and
down and then fly one off myself.
“Wow, as nicely as you’re dressed, in your three-piece suit,
I sure hope you’re not an attorney or I’m screwed.”
Immediately, I laugh at my sense of humor and scribble the
rest of his information down on the back my prescription receipt. I should have
asked him for a piece of paper from his little black notebook. He didn’t offer
one either, so strike against him.
